Yesterday I had an “astrologer” give me a reading. Why? I happen to have a spare $25 I wanted to donate to a worthy cause; the 75 year old, who should spend it on a hair dye (or to get a haircut at the absolute minimum) lady from Europe, just trying to make a few bucks on a beautiful sunny day, feet up on a cat fabric-covered porch swing that had a price tag of $69 on it. I honestly don’t understand why women continue have long hair long after they cease to care about doing anything with it (and I know there is no guy who loves them with long hair). They let the roots go too long, part it down the middle, wiry gray hairs defying gravity, and it hangs untrimmed and funky. (Maybe she can go to Supercuts now and get some style.)

Anyway, it was a mildly interesting half an hour where she told me some stuff...some of which I knew, and some was kind of eerie/offensive. Since when did Astrology combine numerology, Kabala and a deck of Bicycle playing cards? Things sure have changed since I last had my chart done. She obviously wouldn’t be writing one of those daily columns either. I don’t recall her wearing a qualifying Kabala, Madonna red string on her wrist come to think of it. (Now I am wondering if I got taken...h-m-m.)

First off she drew a tic-tac-toe frame...then used the numbers from my birthdate...and of course I told her I was born in Japan so the time/stars allignments would be different...to which she said, “Oh..now vee do dat ting where if you haf lived here a long time yours will be based on dis time.” Oh...I get it, so I shift my star alignment or something.

So now I have the top 3 empty, and two 8’s in the second row on the end and a 1 and a 4 in the third row (I forget the placement). “Everyone alive has a 9 in their birthdate, so vee don’t use it.” Brilliant. Except not having anything in the “intelligence” row kinda hurt, if you know what I mean. Oh sure, she tried to make up for it by saying I make decisions with my emotions, my instincts. But truthfully all I heard was, “You didn’t go to college did you?” Kind of tainted everything from that point out, but I digress.

She did say I would be suffering a huge loss...well duh. She said I had been giving for a long time. My God, how does she figure this shit out? She said, “Many people will want to hear what you have to say...in the next four years....” Um-m-m...”...you’re creative. A communicator.” So I start thinking maybe she should have had my birthday, cause she is not all that good of a communicator, but again I digress. You mean I have been writing for all these years and nobody wanted to listen? I’m crushed.

She did say I would do well financially...in four years. FOUR YEARS? Criminy, I gotta wait Four More Years? I’m, not trying for some Presidential slogan here. Can’t I even have some “Change”? What’s up with the Four Years thing anyway?

Then she told me the Saturn was in my Uranus or something for the past 10 years...funny I never felt it...but apparently many Leos died or were having problems. I suppose that would shuffle me into the latter category, cause I think I am still alive. (I need to research how many Leos died compared to say Capricorns or Scorpios.)

By now I’m starting to look at my watch...crap, only 15 minutes has gone by and she keeps saying, “You don’t think a lot, you just go with your emotions...but be-e-e careful not to find a lover who needs takink care of. No sick people.” Uh---okay. and she did qualify “sick people” as being mentally ill or physically ill. I’m glad she clarified it, since I don’t think with my college educated brain.

As she ran out of flattering things to tell me, she paused, stared deeply into my eyes with her cataract clouds and said, “Now comes zee psychic part. You vant to ask me somefink?”

“Yeah, if you are the psychic how come you don’t already know the question I have for you?”

“Ahhh, you vant to know about the story I wrote from the perspective of Mars then.”

“Huh?”

“Yes, I wrote a story, for people who always imagine what Mars is like...where music is quartz...and thoughts are crystals of many colors, and....”

“Gosh, did I mention I had a Tarot card reading I need to get to?”

Hah, guess I showed her I have a brain! Besides it was a ruse, really for a past Life Reading...and she calls herself a psychic...tsk-tsk.

 

“So, you knew my husband....” but you don't know me.

Hardly a day goes by without some meeting about the businesses I’ve been suddenly thrust into. They are usually meetings with men. I don’t mean with my brother-in-law. I mean with other associated people who did business with my husband.

I discovered I have been known or thought of not as me, but as an appendage to Lance. Hey, I’m happy to have been his other half, but...obviously these men knew me only in the capacity of being his family, his wife, his lover, but not as an individual who may actually have had a life of her own, separate from Lance, as an individual. I’m reduced to feeling like I need to whip out some knitting needles or something when we have our meetings. “Excuse me, Donna Reed died awhile back. Remember?”

In their eyes, I’m the traditional “little woman” who couldn’t possibly have a clue what an investment IRA account is...even though I have been contributing to mine for years because I happen to have worked throughout most of our married life, including the past 17 years as a small business owner.

Do I really need to sit across from a man, just two years older than I, who feels he needs to “illustrate” on a legal pad a series of three boxes representing our IRAs...Lance’s, mine, and the third (drawn in the middle no less) to represent the new merging of our two accounts now? Me either. But he did. Groan.

Did I need him to say, “Lance has a favorite charity.”? Good grief, I was with him for 30 years and I don’t know what charities he/we support? Knit one, pearl one. So, I look up over my reading glasses and said, “I also have a favorite charity I support.” The look on his face was to die for. It was all I could do to keep from snickering, and I’m not much of a snickerer.

"Oh, you have your own charity you support?" He says as though this is a foreign concept.

Finally I get to tell him some of who I am, why I support Children of the Night. After all, he does still want me as a customer now doesn’t he?

I may be a tad rough on him as I look back on this, but it is 2009...which means his talking down to me as well as taking up an hour and a half of my (also valuable) time (for what should have been a twenty minute meeting) was...pitiful.

Yet some of the worst things he said were his parting words casually thrown out as I stood up, ”Are you healthy?” Well... yes, but then so was my husband until he wasn’t.

But the real corker came after I had answered that question, when, as his parting statement to me he said, “Well, you look good.” And this has what to do with you investing my IRAs?

The next story is about me going to pick up a watch of Lance’s , one I want to wear so it was necessary to have some of the links removed. It was a little emotional for me because of the nature of the errand. The one thing which made it a little easier was knowing the jeweler for over a decade, and in fact, having been a partner with him for that long, until I closed my business.

I walk in and ask, “So, how are you?” This seemed to have opened opened his personal floodgates, “Oh... not too good. I’m being sued.” He wanted to go beyond pleasantries.

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear this.” Which I thought was appropriate, and would end it, especially knowing the fragile state I am in...or the one he would soon ascribe to me.
"How are you Sheila? You must feel horrible. "

Could I then be expected to answer anything else other than, "Yes, I feel horrible."? Even if it was not one of the worst days I had experienced, I could feel his expectation that I had to meet, therefore turning my day into his reality. It didn't matter if I was actually feeling sort of good before I walked through those doors, he needed for me to feel horrible to validate his perception of how he would feel. In fact, how he did feel.

He didn't hear me say, "Oh, I feel pretty good today."

Instead he went on and on about every worse case scenario his mind chad come up with over the past 72 hours, since he had heard about the lawsuit. Obviously something I do too (going over the worst that could happen), but for about as long as it takes to go there and see it does nothing productive for me to worry about. What will be will always unfold and reveal itself in good time.

“I couldn’t tell anyone about this, I have nobody to talk to. I think if I told my wife she might divorce me.”

Surely he is kidding. I know his wife, and his children...she would divorce you because of some seemingly unfounded lawsuit. Oh brother, you are in more serious trouble than a lawsuit. What do you say to this? Nothing. I just listened as he let spill every detail...obviously he needed someone to listen, and because I walked through his door, I was it.

When he finally finished all of the confusing details, I digested it, and wondered if I, having been married to an attorney, was why he told me all of this. I mean, he only knows me through our past jewelry dealings...but I gave him the same advice my husband would have done, “Don’t volunteer anything you know. It is up to them to prove you guilty, not for you to prove your innocence.” A concept most of us seem willing to ignore these days, whether it be a condemnation of a new President, to some serious allegations about the mental stability of a political party. Sweeping views not stopping to see how many different individual views might get swept up in the generalizations. I'm guilty of it too. The banker is having his meetings by rote...formulaic based on his past perceptions. It's time for all of us to rethink our perceptions.

If we reach into the bag of world problems and pull any one out, will we see the guilt finger we ascribe pointing at it? I think most of us have to say "yes". And not because we thought it through fully, but because we let the mass of talking heads convince us, whether on tv or in the many blog posts reviling something or someone. The noise of it all gets to be too much. It's easier to get swept up in the debris of the mass than to stand out as an individual. It's safer.

The same thing happened with my jeweler, it’s just I happened to come along and I listened to him. If we all listened more and talked less I wonder how many individuals we would discover? I am one. The banker now knows.

Should my friend be talking this over at home with his wife? Yes, but I am forced to see him as an individual now, something his wife doesn't see anymore.

How do I react to people now? Do I also assail people with the assumption of who they appear to be versus who they are outside of the given situation? Yes, only now I will be more aware of individuals...time to put away those proverbial knitting needles and stand up.

Widowhood, I keep hoping I'll look fat in it, but I don't. The world just isn't black and white.

To ignore things you have to be heavy into denial. If you are spending that much time and effort to deny something, then you are going to miss the point. There is no time for denial, only acceptance. For when we accept the choice is ours, then we understand the preciousness of the time we are allowed. We must open our eyes to making the right choices, the ones which will be for the benefit of not just you, but those who surround you, as well as those who will be left behind to deal with the aftermath, if you do not get out of denial.

Denial serves little purpose in the overall scheme of life. Deal with whatever it is and try to move on. Do not waste much time on the “what ifs” either, unless it is moving you forward toward the goal. Even so, make a list and check it off, spend your time doing not saying “what if”. Try at least.

Trust me, we don’t have time to play with the choices, they are completely visible, as long as you’re open to them. Make a decision, right or wrong and you will get something out of it. The satisfaction of having tried and succeeded is wonderful, and believe it or not, so is having tried and failed. You learn lessons either way.

Regrets...don’t bother. Make changes, adjustments but move forward in life. Memories are reserved for lessons learned and noted. Good or bad. In the scheme of things, you should be letting go of the bad ones and concentrating on the good ones.

I know it may sound simplistic, but why complicate matters by avoiding the simple answer?

There isn’t an hour of the day (or sometimes minute) that I don’t thing about Lance and something we did, and sometimes those things we didn’t do. But I don’t spend much time thinking about what we didn’t do, because the fact is, I cannot change it. All I have is the ability to do is to do the things I need to... and even a few I want to.

Life is not just full of needs, but there is room in it for wants, as long as they are fulfilling some sort of need. It’s really this simple.

I bought a (another) book today, it’s title is, The Other Side of Sadness”. It is written by, George A. Bonanno, and I highly recommend it to anyone who is dealing with a loss of a loved one. Finally, I am hearing about people who feel similar to me, who find it easier to grieve than has been previously talked about. I recognize so many things; what inappropriate things people say because they do not realize we all grieve differently. What a concept! He recognize and debunks some previously taken as the gospel studies and theories. I hear myself in his words...well some of them, but that is way better than reciting by rote what others have surmised and written about.

I know many of you are surprised that I seem to do well, but it seems as though there are three graph lines, trajectories which represent how we deal with grief; a) chronic grief b) recovery and c) resilience. The criteria for each having been taken into account the only one I readily identify with is resilience.

A-h-h-h...resilience. I completely identify with the calmest line of the graph. You may know me as one who seems to be coping well enough to be wounded, but not debilitated. That would be an accurate reflection. I do have very positive experiences, and these seem to help carryover a positive influence to those other people who interact with me. This has shown to be of great help to me in this process of grieving and moving on. When the people I interact with recognize that I am able to move forward, in direction of my new life, with some sense of purpose, they may find it difficult.

I have observed some people speak to me of the devastation of loss, but what I see is their perceived devastation at a contemplation for of their past losses, or those which they may reasonably project to lose in the future. The sudden oncoming of death is a tough and individual response, and it would wrong to assume we all handle it in the same way.

Being a woman who has dealt with and will again (in all probability) be dealing again with a great loss, I handle it as best I can. The best I can do is to take it as another blow which knocks me off of center, but never knocks me out of my senses. I keep my wits about me, and allow those moments of grief to come, honor it, experience it, own it, but then move on because I do believe our time is finite, and I have much left to do in my own life. There are only so many things I can do which have any affect on Lance’s death; honor his life, respect his wishes, continue on with the work he left undone, and enjoy the rest of my life. It seems simple enough to do. I’m on my way.

Oh, and smile, you look so much better with a smile, and you just might change someone's day for the better!











 

“Leave It To the Women”...precursor to the “View” but with civility.

In the early 1980’s there was a television show that seemed innovative at the time, Leave It To The Women. It was a panel of women led by Stephanie Edwards, the daughter of Ralph Edwards (“This is Your Life”, “People’s Court” etc.) and former co-host of “AM America” and now the annual co-host of the Rose Parade with Bob Eubanks.

Each show featured a panel of women who would discuss various topic together. The idea was conceived by a master of entertainment for the times, Chuck Barris. Many of you will recognize some of his other shows; "The Gong Show", "The $1.98 Beauty Show", "The Dating Game", "Treasure Hunt" and "Threes A Crowd" among them. Along with Chuck Barris was Woody Fraser, another man with a long list of executive producer or producer credits on shows including, but not limited to; "That’s Incredible" (which I also contributed to), "Richard Simmons Show", "Good Morning America" and "The Mike Douglas Show". (I had early aspirations to go on the Mike Douglas Show as an author, but despite valiant efforts it was not to be.)

Suffice it to say these were very smart men who had their finger on the pulse of where television was headed; good, bad or indifferent.

I happen to have been working with C.A.T. at the time, and as their Public Relations Manager and Special Projects Coordinator I was often called upon to speak in public or to be a guest on numerous different television shows. Thus, when this show was going to discuss sex, it was only natural they would call me.

I went through several rounds of mail and phone calls to give them background information. Finally the day for taping was set.

My personal life (in this time-frame) included the man I would marry. Our relationship had finally progressed to the point where I was living with him and partaking in weekly dinners with him at his parents’ home. So, I did the natural thing; I invited his mother to come with me to the taping. I never hid who I was while on the way to becoming who I am. She was only too happy to come, much to my relief. There was a live studio audience for her to sit in to watch the taping.

I drove to KTLA with my future mother-in-law, was admitted through the gates and found a parking place quickly. I had been to the studio many times before, on different shows, and to ask a certain former Honorary Mayor of Hollywood, Johnny Grant, for a donation.

Johnny Grant was also the host of his own television show in those days, something to do with Hollywood...because frankly, outside of showing up at every “Star” laying, hand-and-footprint ceremony on Hollywood Boulevard. I think he didn’t have much going on. (Okay, I take it back. I just went to his official website and I take it back.) By the time I got to know him...well, I was 26 and maybe already a tad jaded against old Hollywood guys, or even the newer ones like the other one who kept hitting on me with “odd” sexual requests merely because they knew I had worked at a brothel. I suppose a fairish assumption considering it was Hollywood, but they were so very wrong, because I already had made a lovely segue into creating a respectable life/future for myself.  (I will say one personal thing about Johnny Grant, he paid my telephone bill gratis, no expectations.  That was a huge testament to his conviction to Hollywood and our relationship.)

One in the green room I quickly discovered the prestigious company I was to be with on the panel to discuss the guests; Shana Alexander, journalist, but most known for her “Sixty Minutes” fame, the wonderful singer/actress (best known for her role on “Touched by an Angel”) Della Reese, and a Playboy Centerfold from 1966 and wife of Dick Martin (from “Laugh In” fame), Dolly Martin.

When people say “truth is stranger than fiction”...well, they know it to be true.  I now add my voice to the mix.
 
I realize I haven’t written in a week or so, at least for public consumption.  Sometimes it takes a few days to be able to filter out the gems from the slush pile which has become my life as a...widow.  Goodness, writing that word is strange.  Oh well, I suppose I have has so many pigeonhole names, adding another, the latest is okay.  Some of the ones I have had are a little bit like trying on Cinderella’s slipper...I am looking for a good fit.
 
I was...a child, a daughter, a teenager, a sister, a wife, a mother, a divorcé, a single, a whore, an actress, a model, a writer, a wife again, a lecturer, a jewelry designer, a business owner, a caretaker, a volunteer, a civil rights activist, a military brat, an editor, an artist, and a few other things.  Now I get to be a widow.
 
Being a widow entails a whole new set of problems and I suspect it will contain a few joys too.  This is a time each day is a discovery, of both important things like knowing you have to take the power handed you, to relinquishing some power over things you have little control of.  
 
It is a time for putting one foot in front of the other and hoping you can accomplish what seems like baby steps in a new, unasked for position in life.
 
There are things which could have happened when you are a couple and would hash it out, or just share.   You no longer can do this.  The old “gut instinct” proves to be extremely helpful, as long as you realize it is subject to change as you also undergo changes in other areas.
 
I went to my husband’s forty year class reunion last Saturday night.  I had no plans to go, but let a few of his friends persuade me.  Besides, who wouldn’t want to go to a genuine Beverly Hills 90210 class reunion? 
 
I went with him to his twentieth and thirtieth year reunions.  I knew I had seen the paper flyer announcing it he had brought home.  I remembered his excitement at the thought of reconnecting with his friends.  Then he died, just 15 days before it.  I threw the announcement in the trash, it was his reunion. The class of '69.
 
Some of his friends called when they heard the news.  One, the former news director at a television station, said I should come anyway because many would like an opportunity to express their feeling of loss.  Another friend, and then another echoed the exact sentiments, asking me to be their guest.  I agreed to go...in part because these were his friends, our friends...the ones we hung out and double or triple dated with.  The ones who we partied with during the late 70’s and 80’s.
 
These were the real Beverly Hills High kids, some of whom had known my husband since kindergarten.  Others used to play poker with him, or date him or....well, he was loved by many.  
 
So I drove to LA, dressed in a dress I bought in Las Vegas, slapped a smile on my face and had one of his friends pick me up and take me, so I would not have to walk into the reunion alone.

Some of them were closer than others to me; Judy, wife of one of his friends was my maid of honor at our wedding.  I only had one attendant, our wedding was small for maybe forty people total.  This couple was out to dinner with us the night before our wedding. I wanted to--no, I also needed to see these people one more time.  
 
What I discovered is I still love Judy, she hasn’t changed except to become wiser...we laughed about all of us singing “Chili Bean” to Michael Jackson’s song, “Billie Jean” while driving up Doheny Drive...definitely high on life, and probably some other recreational enhancement.  It was the early 80’s and like many others we partied...but only on weekends.  Nearly all of us were working for a living.  Oddly enough those, whose parents knew the wisdom of making their children work, had the brightest and most successful in later life.  Those “trust fund babies”...at least the men, would take a dive, some literally off of a balcony after a tragic night of murder, others off of a financial cliff.  Tough times for Beverly High, yet probably no different in the outcomes of so many other school classes.  
 
Through the three decades some of the kids didn’t fare so well.  Take A.G., his father passed away early on, leaving him a vast fortune.  His first wedding was in Las Vegas...I didn’t know him then, but later on you could watch him burn through the money, as well as a succession of wives; the high school sweetheart one, another a supermodel and the last an artist.  He had homes all over the country and world, for a time, each one of the spouses had his children...and then took much of his money in the subsequent divorces.   Messy all of them.  He ended up broke and sleeping on the couches of his friends.  I saw him Saturday, wild eyed but oddly calm.   He remembered me, as well as the last time he saw me I was a blonde.   Or he had just seen my husband and I it on the endless loop of the past two reunions, like I did as we spoke, his back to the television and me looking over his shoulder, mesmerized at my husband and I looking so youthful, beautiful and happy.  How odd to see us, yet watching the interviews of us made me feel less alone.  
 
Another was a philanderer, a serial one, as they often are.  He learned how to be a good one from a master, his father.  He burned through several wives, always with “the” mistress on the side.  I got to meet her tonight, finally.  Oddly, he stayed with the same one, but had two or three wives, I lost track actually.  He doesn’t look so good.  He was always kind to me in the past, tonight was no different.  Well, it was...this time he was at a loss for words.  
 
Many people didn’t know what to say...hell I didn’t either.  They would say, “I’m so sorry”, or, “He was a charismatic man” or, “So glad you came.” 
 
Some of the so-called beautiful people were not...either inside nor outside. 
 
Another fell completely apart when she was introduced to me.  Wailing loudly, crying like a baby, snot dripping on my shoulder as I held her and patted her on the pack, “It’s okay, it will be okay.  Can I get you a tissue?”  
 
“Screech.”  Damn, that was a direct assault on my right eardrum, and I politely tried to pry her heaving, sobbing body away to rummage through my purse and get her a tissue.  She nearly pierced my eardrum.
 
Not all were so strange.  I was “cornered” in the ladies room where I heard a tale of my husband taking a woman to her junior high prom, a woman he barely knew, but asked to go because nobody else did.  “He picked me up in a Rolls Royce that night.  I’ll never forget his kindness.”  I shuffled from foot to foot, in an effort to wait for an empty stall.  
 
“I want you to know...” I began, “...Lance never changed from the person you describe, he was like this the entire thirty years I was with him.  He was a kind man, always thinking of others.”
 
Eventually the stall door opened, saving me from ruining my outfit and a perfectly embarrassing problem.  One of them anyway.
 
Based on my experiences Saturday night, here are some things you should not say/do to a grieving widow:
 
1.   “I hear your husband made tons and tons of money in show business.”   This shows your complete ignorance and negates any earlier statement professing how well you knew him.
2.    “I had a dream about him one week before he died.  He was walking up a hill to the reunion...but he couldn’t make it.”  Oh thank you for sharing this.
3.    “Did he have a will?”  Unless you are an attorney or you are  the state, it’s none of your business.
4.  “I have known him since we were four.”  Oh, that must be why I never heard your name in thirty years.
5.  “We just had to come to the 40th reunion...you never know who won’t make it to the 50th ya know.”  Uh-h-h yeah, I do.
6.  Shove a video camera, lights and a so called friend (with bad breath) with a microphone in her face and say, “This is blank-blank and her husband blank died two weeks ago.  Are you having fun tonight?”  What do you think, it was his class reunion.  
 
I am glad I went, but not sure I’ll be looking at the CD of the event, even though a renown editor in Hollywood, and friend of ours will be editing all of the footage.  Some things do not need a replay.
 
 

I went to my mailbox yesterday, and found a large mailing envelope. What was inside most of you will know about, because you made this happen.

"Reflections of a Sunset" is the most beautiful and thoughtful thing anyone has done for me...for us. The mere words, thank you seem so insignificant in the face of the generosity, sincerity, and love shown to me by so many.

Again, I sit here with tears welling at how much of your time, energies and LOVE were poured into this project. A monumental task in coordination had to have taken place to put this all together in such a timely fashion. I'm overwhelmed by your love.

Last evening, when I could sit down and finally read each and every word, absorb and allow the feelings of each photo, poem, story or comment to sink in, I discovered how much I had brought of Lance into your lives through my writing. What a gift you have each given back to me...the ability to express how he touched you.

I have so much more I want to say...but today is Lance's 40th High School Reunion and they have asked me to come. He was their Class President. I have already seen a memorial "wall" with tributes on their site, but his friends will no doubt do something extra. I think I can expect a night of surprises, tears, hugs and a great deal of emotion...both from them and me.

I need to go now for a few days, but when I return I will be saying much more. Thank you all from the bottom of a both empty and full heart, mine.

Love and blessings to you.
Sheila/Nada
 

My heart is full, even overflowing with the memories of love my husband lavished on me in creative ways.

I share myself, my experiences, because I am a writer, observer, but what is even more important is the realization I am a participator in this thing we call life. I have always been a participator, a documentarian through my words. I’m rarely at a loss for them, especially during the past twelve days.

TWELVE DAYS? It feels like an eternity already. I have done more in the past two weeks than I have done in years. I am writing a lot, not all of it is public, but all will be...to be told once filtered through green eyes that have seen less than two weeks without him by my side.

By my side...literally and figuratively for so long; just under half of my life, by only days on the calendar. I suppose it is why some people expect “widows” to wear black and mourn for...exactly how long is it? They would dare ascribe a spoken or unspoken time-frame on how I should or should not be.

They couldn’t possibly understand the non-stop adrenaline rush, the highs, the lows and the toll it takes on your very being. I feel as though I am a deer caught in the headlights of death. Yet even while frozen in the moment, all around me is whizzing by. I understand now. I make a bubble of positivity around me, to protect me. It’s nothing more than a defense mechanism, but the one I think will cloak me best against the swirling vortex of negativity which has tried to burst my bubble. Hey...not going to happen losers. Back off.

My husband came home on Saturday, delivered in a fancy, sage green paper shopping bag, probably inscribed with some impressive looking golden logo (I’m not sure, I didn’t pay attention). Inside the bag was a non-descript gray...ironically looking like a miniature file cabinet, box. It struck me; my superman came home in a gray suit. No cape though. Handed over to me like it was a gift. In my head I heard him say, “Hi Honey, I’m home.” He was but weirdly so. You see his mother wanted a piece of him. My sister-in-law wanted a piece of him, all wrapped in shiny brass engraved small boxes. I got what was left. I like to think it was his heart, and soul, every last bit of it. I know why they wanted some, it’s just hard to know he was split up. But then I realized I would be doing it myself. One part in the garden where he loved to sun himself, one part in the shade under the tree outside my bedroom (so I could visit during daytime with my sun allergy and all), and then I was planning to drop a few in the Caribbean on our cruise..and in... gulp...the Panama Canal. I understood even more now.

However by four o’clock on Monday I had lost him. Yes, earlier in the day, during a mad frenzy of cleaning because of a door that had opened, I took him from of his temporary place on the mantle and put him somewhere not so, well, in your face.

After a whirl of excitement (caused by an effort to honor him in a way he would adore and approve of) I couldn’t remember where I placed him. Now what? The thoughts running through my mind. How can I scatter his ashes now? How can I explain this to his family?

Think back. I remember I contemplated putting him in my newly unlocked safe. The same one I had begged him to get a locksmith to open for two plus years. There wasn’t anything of huge importance in there because I anticipated the eventual problem. But still two plus years was a bit much. I had it opened on Saturday. Okay, putting him in the safe was out, besides being dark and confined it was little. Nope.

Then I blanked. Maybe...the armoire, where I could “hide” the things and close the door. No, he hated messes. I looked anyway. Not there.

Then I thought of our closet. Our split-down the middle closet. His side customized for his control in the wheelchair, mine not so important when you can walk you know? I smiled. Yep, that’s where he would be. I got the key and unlocked the door, flipped on the light and was greeted by many more things reminding me of him...the things I will not detail to protect dignity...but more than that his clothing. The shirt cubbyholes were filled with his chosen fabrics carefully cleaned and in the dry cleaner’s plastic bags with cardboard collars...the stacked sweaters, the rack of his suits and sports coats made perfectly for the raconteur and bon vivant he was...I didn’t see the dull gray box. I sigh.

“Hoh---ney. here are you? Come on out!” I say aloud smiling, in my best “I Love Lucy” style voice. He was my Ricky Ricardo, I was his Lucy. Then I got down on my knees to look under his hanging clothes on the floor. I pulled back a few sports coats...then his black velvet smoking jacket hanging next to his green one that he wore only on Christmas Night with the black and green Glen Plaid tuxedo pants....yep, there he was, cloaked in one small, dull gray “suit” which was holding my baby, hidden underneath his tuxedo jackets. Exactly where he felt so comfortable. I know he was laughing with me as I carried him back to the mantle, now to ironically to be hidden from my sight by the big plasma television he so loved.

I push the red power button on the remote.

“You Donkey!”

Why...is that the “Hell’s Kitchen?” A-h-h-h he loved Chef Ramsey. FLIP.

“André Ethier is up next...” Yep. Now I feel sort of normal. The sound of the clickety-clack of my nails hitting the laptop’s keys, reassuring, if not downright normal.

 

My dear friends. I'm beginning a new blog now as I begin to learn to live life without my companion, friend and lover of thirty years.

I don't know what the journey will be like, but you have all seen me through every major upheaval for about five years now. I can't imagine not going through this journey without you by my side. You give me safety when I feel none, a sense of stability when there seemingly is none.

I can’t begin to tell about the past few days, it will have to wait awhile. But, I can tell you all this is an amazing journey I am starting.

The color blue has been a recurring element in the past eleven days. This is my story of the first incident.

Until recently I didn’t realize I had cassette tapes going back to 1970. Not just any tapes. They include two tapes of four songs I wrote, sang and recorded on cassette. A mere couple of months ago I had found the bag full of tapes. I had to go to Ebay and buy a new, unused cassette player. I had to hear me talking about my life, and boy did I.

When my husband and I were first together...I am unclear of the exact time-frame, except it had to be during the years of 1975-78. Each was written at a different date, for different reasons.

I wrote one song I called “Blue Jay Way”, because we lived on the street...and yes, there were many Bluejays. The song expressed my joy at the nature of our progressive relationship.

We called each other “Knucks”, short for knucklehead...sometimes we said “buzz-knucks” instead, named after the Three Stooges knuckles to the top of each other’s heads. Lance was a great fan of physical comedy. Me...not so much, but the laughter they could solicit from him was well worth watching those shows with him. I watched Lance watching them, not Larry, Moe and Curly. Okay, maybe a little. Nyuck...nyuck... nyuck.

I had written and recorded it one day so when he came home from his job I’d just hit the button and play... me, singing the song.

So my song’s opening lines were;

“Just a couple of knucks...on Blue Jay Way....

Givin’ each other yucks all the night and the day....”

We had a red and black Oriental cabinet in our entry hall. He always put his car keys on it and checked the mail. I placed the recorder on it, and when I heard his car pull into the carport I waited like the hunched cat, ready to pounce into action. When finally I heard his key in the large, carved solid wood door, and he pushed the door open. I stood in front of the cabinet...then turned around, hit the play button and skipped over to kiss him “hello”. The reaction?

His laughter was so infectious, so genuinely thrilled it made me laugh along with him as I then began to sing a duet with myself. He grabbed me around the waist and pulled me close...we stood close, an intimate moment that lingers forever. Kind of like the smell of fresh baked cookies long after you ate them hot from the oven hunched over the counter. Don’t you love that smell?

Cut to August of this year.

He lay in the hospital for two weeks and a day. I sang, “Blue Jay Way” to him each day. I leaned close and sang in his ear, or I stood at the foot of the bed, and belted it out...not giving a shit who heard. It only mattered that he would. My fondest hopes were that he would get tired of it and say, “Are you going to ever stop singing? You’re a writer, not a singer.”

Sadly I never got to hear him say it...but I gave it my all to “annoy” him well, in the sweetest way possible. I know kinda like holding a chocolate chip cookie under his nose.

I just found the the tape of me singing this....